


I Fell Burning

by KateC



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateC/pseuds/KateC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, Clarke sees a reversal of fortune and Bellamy Blake is an asshat. Slow burn, cause that's how I roll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This is unapologetically, shamelessly unrealistic. I'm so not sorry. Enjoy. ;)  
> Fanfic AU Slightly canon divergent. Look, I needed something in my life that was going to end happily okay? Also, I don't care if you pictured Bellamy and Clarke going crazy over books together. I'm a booknerd so you get what you get. Disclaimer: Basically an excuse to combine sexytimes with Pablo Neruda.  
> Playlist: megmo42 "bellamy x clarke" on spotify
> 
> This is really just a birthday gift to myself. I hope you enjoy. Sorry, there was no proofreader this time around, so if my grammar bothers you, you can volunteer to proofread my stuff for me! (srsly, message me if you want to proofread my stuff. please. pretty please!!)

There was no crappier feeling than moving out of your childhood home and into a tiny-ass, run-down, little cottage. True, the cottage was theirs outright. Clarke's parents had bought the two-parcel property back when her mom got the job at the hospital. They'd rented out the hovel, as Clarke liked to call it and lived in the four bedroom ranch style themselves.

Look how the tables had turned.

She knew she was twenty and should be above such things. She knew that a house was a house, especially when they were so close to losing everything. But she was sad, dammit. The only place she had ever lived in, the place where her daddy had raised her, was about to go on sale to the highest bidder. Meanwhile, she would be living right next door and some other family would own it. Some other girl would be sleeping in her room, eating in her kitchen, swimming in her pool. She'd have to hear someone else's happiness and be faced with her own lack thereof.

“Why can't we sell this place instead?” she asked her mom, in one of the rare moments Clarke felt like talking to her.

“Because this land is worth next to nothing, Clarke. You know that. Listen, I'm sorry about this, I am, but would you rather lose everything? We'd have to sell the house anyway.”

Clarke pressed her lips together and went on unpacking. They'd had to ditch a lot of their stuff in the move to fit in their modest new digs, but none of the big stuff was what mattered to Clarke. It was the keepsakes—the photos and sketches she'd done of her dad—that mattered most to her. There was the copy of Secret Garden he'd read to her as a child. The photograph they'd taken when she had her first dental appointment and they went out for milkshakes afterward. And a little stuffed lion he had given her on a whim when he'd seen it in an airport store on his way back from a conference.

A couch was replaceable, these things were not.

After a few weeks in their new home, Clarke couldn't help noticing that they hadn't had so much as a nibble offer on their house.

“Is it the price?” she wondered, when she got home from her part time job. College didn't pay for itself, and neither did her mother, apparently. At least not until the giant medical bills were taken care of. Any scholarships she'd earned in high school were long gone now, since the day she'd ditched everything to be by her dad's side.

“The realtor said the price is good for what we're offering. It's just that we got it so late to market,” Abby said. “Mid-October isn't the best time to list a house.”

Clarke bit her lip and pulled her hair back into a ponytail before starting up her dinner. It was unusual to see her mom at home these days, since she'd been working overtime at the hospital to try and make extra money.

It was the one thing Clarke couldn't manage to hold against her. After all, Abby had paid for all she could after the insurance refused to cover Jake Griffin's experimental drugs. It wasn't her fault that they'd quickly gone into the thousands of dollars trying to save him. It was worth any cost. It was—although she wasn't sure if her mom thought so. Still, she worked her ass off to make sure her husband had any treatments they could give him.

“It's got to sell soon, though, right? Or we'll be in deep,” said Clarke as she pulled a large pot out of the cupboard. She banged her elbow against the counter and swore quietly. The kitchen was hardly big enough to turn around in, much less cook.

“If we don't sell soon, I might have to take out a home equity loan or see if I can take out a third mortgage,” said Abby, the lines around her mouth deepening.

They'd already sold their cars, now both of them were driving ancient commuter cars, known for their reliability and their high mileage. They'd sold the art that the Griffins had spent the better part of their marriage collecting. They'd sold the high end electronics and the gaming systems. Anything and everything worth more than the bother of having to list it online had been sold.

But it wasn't enough. They _needed_ to sell that house.

Unfortunately, the universe didn't seem to understand their money problems. By the time mid-December and property tax time rolled around, they still had no offers and now Clarke was really starting to worry. She'd applied to college, hoping that they would sell the house in time, but now it looked like she'd have to drop out before she'd even begun her first semester.

In the meantime, when she was off work, she made a spot for herself in the back yard. Down close to the creek was an old gazebo type structure—still sturdy—that she'd claimed as her own. Clarke had walked down the fence between the two properties, slipped through the hidden gate and gone into their old yard for the hammock. It was one of those types that had its own stand.

Clarke dragged it through the gate with not a little trouble, and set it up under the gazebo so it would be protected. She had an old crate that she used as a side table, and even though it was the middle of winter, she spent most of her time out there. There was an old wool blanket that had been in the box of things from her grandmother's house, and her father’s old winter coat and stocking cap. When Clarke was bundled up under all of it, she almost felt as though he were holding her.

Her mom was always at the hospital, or—or somewhere else. Since Clarke was on her own for so much, she was often out there. She'd grab a thermos of coffee and a make herself a sandwich. With her sketchpad tucked up under her arm, she'd make her way out to her nest. Then she'd spend hours in the freezing cold, doing sketch after sketch of her father.

Sometimes just a single feature—his eyes, or the curve of his smile—was her focus. Sometimes she'd draw the line of his body like a shadow and nothing else. Mostly, she'd draw his face and try to capture the kindness she'd always seen there.

It was one of those days, and she was starting to wonder if the numbness in her fingers was worth her need to be alone when she heard the sliding glass door open and shut in their old house. The sound of footsteps filtered over the fence and she heard them walking around the sidewalk beside the pool. Clarke heard a woman's voice and then there was the sound of a deep male voice in answer.

She carefully climbed out of the hammock and stepped down from the gazebo, walking through the dead leaves and brush over toward the barrier between their two properties.

“This is amazing,” said the man. “Why are they selling it for so low? Because it's the middle of winter?”

“It's my understanding that there are some medical debts they are hoping to discharge,” said the woman.

There was a whistle at this and a chuckle. The sound of it made Clarke's hair stand on end.

“Well, all the better for me then.”

Her fists clenched and she wanted to go to the other side and punch the man, that she couldn't even see, punch him until he was bleeding and broken.

“Yes, I think it could be to your advantage,” said the woman.

“I'll have my lawyer contact you within the week,” said the man and their footsteps receded away from her.

Clarke sighed and leaned up against the fence. It looked like they might finally have an offer on the house, though she was less than thrilled about the potential buyer.

“Just get through college, Clarke. Get through school, get a job, and then get the hell out of here,” she whispered to herself.

~~~~~

“We have an offer on the house,” said Abby.

“Thank God,” Clarke breathed.

“Don't celebrate yet. His lawyer wants to meet with us first,” replied her mother.

“Us?”

“Yes, I found that odd, too,” Abby said. “But nevertheless, we need the money, so I agreed we would meet with him on Monday.”

When Monday came and Clarke found herself wondering what they could possibly need to talk to a lawyer about, it was no surprise to her that it ended up being something really weird.

“My client wants to make you an offer that's 50,000 above your asking price,” said Mr. Stone, after he'd introduced himself invited them to sit down.

“Well, that's fantastic,” said Abby, looking relieved.

Clarke remembered what the man had said when he was touring their backyard. He didn't sound like the type to be generous for no reason.

“What's the catch?” she asked.

“Clarke!” hissed Abby.

“No, your daughter is right. There is a catch,” he told them. He folded his hands and leaned forward. Clarke was given the impression that he was bracing himself for something particularly unpleasant.

“You see,” he began, “My client, Mr. Blake, has recently been the beneficiary of a rather large sum of money, in the form of a trust. He will have well above the amount of money needed to pay cash to the tune of $50,000 above asking price.

“The issue is, that my client is twenty-five years old and can't touch his trust until he's thirty.”

“Well, your client can't possibly expect that we're just going to let him live in our house for free for five years?”

Stone laughed and shook his head.

“No, of course not. We know you need the money and we want you to get it. There is a way that my client can access that trust before he's thirty.”

Both women looked at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“If he gets married, and stays married for a year, Mr. Blake will have full access to his trust,” said Mr. Stone.

“And exactly what is your point here?” asked Abby, rising from her chair. “Is he honestly thinking that one of us is desperate enough to—”

“Do I have to live with him?” asked Clarke.

The tense lines in Stone's face relaxed.

“Not at all. It would be a marriage in name only and just for a year. My client would make zero claims on your life,” he told her.

“You mean except for the whole being married part of the equation,” said Clarke.

“Clarke, this is ridiculous. We'll find another buyer,” Abby said, and pushed away from her chair.

Clarke stood as well, then leaned forward and placed her palms on the table.

 _Get through school, get a job, and get the hell out of here_ , she told herself.

“I'll do it,” she told him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy is still an asshat...

“You're what?” asked Raven, choking and sputtering a bit before she could even speak. She wiped at her mouth with a napkin and tried to wipe the astonishment off of her face with it to no avail.

She and Raven had been friends for many years. In fact, it was Clarke's dad who recognized her genius with mechanics and got her a scholarship at their local college. The two had a very close relationship and she was almost as devastated as Clarke herself when he'd died.

She was also pretty much the only one that Clarke trusted to tell about her money troubles.

“I said, I'm marrying a stranger on Thursday because he needs access to his trust fund so he can buy our house and then we'll be out of debt and I can go to college,” said Clarke, taking a deep breath.

As soon as she had agreed, the lawyer, who must have been paid quite a lot of money, had laid out several documents for her to sign: a pre-nup, a document saying she hadn't been paid to marry Mr. Bellamy Blake, and a form so the lawyer could get them a marriage license.

“Clarke, honey, you sound out of your mind. Are you high?” asked her friend.

“No. I'm more serious than I've been in my entire life. And I'm doing it, so please don't act like my mom and try to convince me that I'm being an idiot. It's one year. I can handle it. It's not like I have to see him, like ever.”

Raven raised her eyebrows and pressed her lips together.

“Whatever you say, Boss. So what am I here for then?” she asked.

“I need help picking out something that says I'm not emotionally engaged, but I'm not a total slob either. And also, will you be my witness? My mother isn't coming, for obvious reasons.”

When they got back to Clarke's house, Raven rummaged through her closet for likely suspects, which was difficult, because Clarke's wardrobe was a couple years out of date.

“You're lucky you have a really classic sense of style,” said Raven. “How about this one?”

She held up a mistake of a dress that Clarke had bought back when they were sneaking into clubs with fake ids. There were about three inches missing from everywhere on that thing and Clarke started laughing.

Raven joined in and they surrendered to the incredulity of it.

“I can't believe I'm helping you pick out the dress you're going to be married in,” said Raven, shaking her head.

“Helping is a bit of a stretch,” replied Clarke and she took the offending dress from her friend and hung it in the back of the closet. She picked through the dresses, almost immediately dismissing a third of them.

“You know what I mean, Clarke. You're going to be someone's wife in like two days,” she said, reaching past Clarke into the closet. “You should wear this one.”

'This one' was a simple navy wrap dress with a lovely cherry blossom detail and a pale pink ribbon encircling the waist. It was casual enough that she would wear it to a coffee shop, but nice enough that she wouldn't look like a slob in it.

“What are you going to do with your hair?”

Clarke pursed her lips. “Wear it down, I think. Nothing says 'I don't give a fuck' like pretty much doing nothing with my hair,” said Clarke. “I'll put some product in it so it doesn't get out of hand, but I think that's it.”

Taking the dress, Clark hung it on the hook behind her bedroom door.

“You should wear it with these,” said Raven, holding out a pair of metallic pink ballet flats.

Clarke took them and stared down at them for a few moments.

“I keep telling myself this isn't a big deal and that my life won't really change, but I don't know how much I believe it,” she mumbled.

Raven slung an arm around her shoulders.

“It's kind of a big deal, but I'll be there with you,” she told Clarke and gave her a one-armed squeeze.

Abby surprised Clarke at the last minute by insisting on coming with her to see the justice of the peace. Raven also drove over with her, and Clarke noticed that Blake had brought his own entourage.

She saw his lawyer there, but would have been confused by the group of guys ambling around the room if she hadn't heard his voice before. When the tall guy with strong jaw and the square shoulders turned to say something to one of his cronies, Clarke knew it was him.

She was also puzzled. Why did this guy have problems getting himself a year long bride? He was insanely good-looking. She turned to Raven and jerked her chin in his direction and watched her friend's eyebrows raise.

“This guy needs to bribe himself a wife?” Clarke murmured. “Color me surprised.”

She shrugged and let Mr. Stone escort her over to Blake's side. Her future husband looked down at her with cold amusement and gave her a sardonic grin as he took in her face, white, and her nice dress.

“Sorry, didn't realize this was a formal affair,” he said, looking down at his slashed jeans and tight black t-shirt.

Clarke shrugged and threw back her shoulders, raising her chin slightly.

“I like to look presentable whenever I get married,” she retorted and he chuckled.

She felt for a moment like punching him, maybe, or staring at his dark eyes. Closing her own for a moment, she prayed that everything would disappear and she would be in her backyard hiding away, listening to the sound of the creek or the whisper of the wind.

“Don't worry, it'll be over soon,” he whispered next to her ear, making her jump a little in surprise.

And it was. They said their vows, they signed their license and were about to part, until his friends started chanting, “Kiss, kiss!”

Standing stiffly, she allowed him the liberty of sliding a hand around the back of her head and held her breath as he kissed her. It was short and dirty and he didn't resist the opportunity to let his tongue dive, just once, into her mouth. He tasted like ashes, death, and selfishness, but she didn't move. He pulled back and winked at her and she turned away from him, grimacing.

“He's a smoker,” was all she would say to Raven on their drive back to her house.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I pictured Bellamy as a smoker, but you'll be happy to know he's less of an asshat in this chapter. :D

It was days later before he moved in. And honestly, she barely noticed, because she had started classes and a new part time job to fit with her busy schedule, so she was hardly home. But she noticed his car out in the drive, a surprisingly old clunker—a Chevy El Camino. It was _not_ in mint condition.

Once, he left the garage open and she saw a wide array of tools laid out and another old car with the hood open. But that was the only sign she had for a while that anyone was living there. Until one Saturday when she got off work early.

She pulled into the drive and heard loud music pounding over the fence along with the smell of cooking meat and voices—male and female. There was a bag in the backseat of her car and she grabbed it before going through the side gate and into the back yard. The classic rock playing next door was distracting, but not altogether unpleasant.

Clarke's little gazebo nest had taken on a life of its own. She'd run an extension cord into it and hung little multi-colored twinkle lights all around it—one of the first purchases she'd made after the money for the house came through. It was nice that the money from her job could go toward things for herself now, and not toward saving for school. She was still saving a lot of it, though, because that's the type of person she was. Always save for the inevitable rainy day.

She had a giant waterproof/dustproof chest that she stored her blankets, hat, fingerless gloves, and pillows in. There was also a leather satchel that housed all her sketches and pencils. And now, there was going to be a wind chime.

It was the biggest one the store had, with three separate yet interconnected sections and when she ran her fingers over the long metal tubes it sounded like a flock of fairies was dancing around her. Clarke hadn't thought about the noise it would make when she hung it, but she didn't think that anyone would hear it over the roar of the music next door.

The minute it was hanging and jingling all over the place as she set it to rights, however, the people next door were commenting on it. She heard _his_ voice carrying above the others.

“Oh, I bet that's my lovely wife. She practically lives back there,” he said as clear as her chimes in the early evening air.

 _Now how does he know that_ , she wondered. _He couldn't have been watching me, could he?_

“Hey, wife!” he called, and his friends hooted with laughter, the sound rippling its way over to her where she stood in the safety of her gazebo.

She ignored him and pulled out her sketch pad. Debating, Clarke mulled over taking it in the house, because she didn't feel like being harassed for his amusement.

“Don't be embarrassed, Clarke. Here, I have a present for you. Consider it a wedding gift,” he said.

Something hit the ground on the other side of the fence and she jumped. Curiosity made her go and see what it was.

There was an unopened package of Marlboro Reds laying on the dead brown grass. She picked them up in her hands, irritation filling her at the memory of his kiss, the intruding tongue and devil-may-care manners. Something sprang alive in her that she'd put dormant when her father died.

She stomped right over to the hidden gate, flipped open the lock, and pulled it wide. Silence fell as everyone stared at her with wide eyes. She must have painted quite the picture in her jeans, boots and vest—hair wild around her shoulders, intimidating frown on her face.

Clarke spotted Bellamy sitting back in one of her old lounge chairs, smug grin on his face. She threw the pack of cigarettes at that stupid smile and watch in private amusement as he gasped and batted it away.

“I don't want your stupid cigarettes. I don't smoke. And you shouldn't either! Your kiss tasted like shit and ashes!” she yelled and slammed the gate shut, then locked it.

There was more silence for a moment, then she heard him laugh, loud and long.

“My wife has sass, she does,” he hooted.

Clarke grabbed her sketch pad and ran to the house, sliding the door shut behind her.

~~~~~

The next day she had a late shift, so she spent the morning in her hammock, listening to the way the wind tickled the chimes she'd put up. For once, she wasn't in the mood to draw her dad. Instead Clarke drew fairies and sprites and toadstools and whatever silly imaginary things popped into her mind. She let herself pretend and it felt amazing.

At some point her fingers felt like they were about to fall off from the cold and she realized that she hadn't brought out anything to drink like she usually did. So she climbed out of her nest and started back for the house.

“What do you do out there anyway?” his voice said, right before she got to the back porch.

Clarke yelped and felt like she almost lost an inch off her life.

“How did you—how did you know I was out here?” she asked, turning toward the fence. It sounded like he was sitting on the back patio.

“You're always out there,” Blake answered and she heard him move and his voice got closer. “Besides, I could hear you crunching through the dead leaves.”

“Oh. Uh, I just like to be back there. It's peaceful.”

She wasn't about to pour out her secrets to a stranger, husband or no.

“That's okay, it's none of my business,” he said. “Listen, Griffin, I want to apologize.”

Her whole body stiffened and she suddenly wanted to leave the conversation. She had no interest in bearing the burden of forgiveness for someone else. She was already having to do that for her father.

“This is weird not doing face-to-face,” he said. “Could you meet me by the front gate?”

Her lip was probably bright red from all the biting she was doing to it.

“Sure,” she said and walked around to the side of the house, opening the gate as she went. Clarke closed it behind her and stood waiting as he opened his own side. Blake leaned up against the gate itself and looked at her for a moment.

“I shouldn't have kissed you like that, when we got married. I don't really have a good explanation for it either,” he said and rubbed the back of his neck.

She felt a jolt at the sudden remembrance that yeah, she _was_ married to the guy. It was such a weird thought that she almost lost the thread of the conversation for a moment.

“I guess you just looked so stiff, standing there, that I kinda wanted to loosen you up a little. I was a total asshole about it, though, so I wanted to say I'm sorry,” Blake told her.

“Okay,” was what she said, but it wasn't like Clarke was dismissing what he did, it was more like she was telling him that he'd only be given so many chances.

He smiled and seriously it lit up his whole face and her breath caught for a moment.

“Does my mouth really taste like shit?” he asked, laughter dancing in his eyes.

Giving a half-shrug, she said, “Yeah, kind of. You shouldn't smoke anyway.”

Blake flat out laughed at that.

“Strangely enough no one but you seems to mind it.”

“Then maybe you should have married one of them,” she shot back.

Clarke crossed her arms and glared at his leather jacketed form. He was barefoot, which was just ridiculous, because it was freezing cold out.

“I'm not like other girls,” she told him.

“I got that.” Blake laughed again, and his warm gaze took in her face.

“Why didn't you, though?” Clarke asked. “Why did you marry a stranger? You look like you could get a girl easy enough.”

“Oh really?” he leered.

His face got serious. “It's easier with a stranger. No expectations, no hopefulness. Last thing I need is some girl falling for me.”

Clarke gave a short nod.

“Well, I have to go to work in a little bit, so I better get ready,” she said, thumbing over her shoulder toward the house behind her.

“Okay, well, see you around, Griffin,” was all he said before slipping back over to his side again.

She turned and walked back toward the house.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More interaction between our newlyweds. :)

A couple of days later she was carrying a backpack full of books through the gate and out into the yard when his voice stopped her.

“Back out to the nest again?”

She was startled to realize that he had given her spot the same name she had.

“Have you been spying on me?” she asked, shifting her weight so the backpack rested evenly between her shoulder blades.

“Not spying. But, you had the lights on over there and I might have peeked over the fence to see the setup you've got going on. It's pretty elaborate,” he said, and she heard the lounge chair squeak as he got up. The scent of his cigarette wafted over the fence and she waved it away from her face.

“What exactly do you do all day?” she asked. She wasn't sure if she actually wanted to know, but the question popped out before she got a chance to censor herself.

He laughed and the fence creaked as he presumably leaned against it. More smoke wafted up and over the fence and she stepped back.

“Nothing, really. I work on my car, lift some weights. I read a lot, I guess,” he said.

“I guess you don't need a job,” Clarke wondered, assuming that whatever money was in his trust had to be substantial.

“Not anymore, no. I was in the army for a while, but I was kind of messed up afterward. I decided not to reenlist. I worked on cars at my friend's shop, but it's no fun doing the minor stuff: the oil changes, the radiator replacements.”

There was a huff of breath and another curl of white.

“You're pretty busy, though, I've noticed,” he commented. “Most of the time you're not even here.”

She'd gotten kind of used to the smoke. Dropping the backpack, she stepped forward and leaned on the other side of the fence, one shoulder braced against it.

“I'm in college now and besides that, I work part time. Gotta graduate and get the hell out of here,” she told him.

“In a hurry, huh? Why not do it now? Make the big leap. Move in with that friend of yours I saw at the courthouse,” he suggested.

“Well, right now my mom is paying for school. She and I kind of made an agreement. I live with her and she pays for everything. I don't make enough money at my part time job to pay for tuition, much less living expenses and books and stuff. As soon as I'm finished, though...”

“You're out, I get it. Well, good luck with that. I admire your ambition. You have a goal and that's more than a lot of people can say.”

“More than you can say?” she asked, unable to resist giving him one more zinger.

“I have goals,” he argued. “Goal number one, finish this cigarette.”

Clarke laughed and shook her head.

“I've got to go study,” she said and leaned down to grab her backpack.

“See you around, Clarke,” he said.

She heard the sound of the sliding glass door open and close as she made her way over to the gazebo.

~~~~~

“So how is married life treating you?” Raven asked before she took a huge bite of her burger. Clarke shook her head at her friend's lack of table manners.

“Ha ha, very funny,” Clarke replied. Taking a single fry from her plate she dipped it in barbecue sauce and munched on it.

“You have to admit, yours is a unique story. Two strangers, married and living next door to each other,” said Raven.

“Ignoring each other,” said Clarke, and took another fry.

“Not exactly. I mean, he gave you that really romantic wedding present and all,” said Raven laughing to herself for long enough that Clarke seriously considered dumping her soda over her gorgeous friend's head.

“First of all, it was a jest. Second of all, that was like a month ago,” Clarke said. “And third of all, I don't want to talk about Bellamy Blake. Ten more months until he and I are divorced and living our own lives.”

“It's too bad that whole thing isn't for real,” Raven told her.

“Raven...” Clarke warned, clutching her drink in a steadily tightening hand.

“I'd just like to see you happy, is all. I haven't seen you happy in a really long time, Clarke, and it fucking breaks my heart.”

Raven wasn't big on touchy feely stuff, so for her to say something like that made Clarke's heart hurt. She sighed and tipped her head back against the wall behind her.

“It seems so long ago, doesn't it? We were in high school and we didn't have anything to ruin us,” Clarke reminisced.

“The world can still be yours, Clarke. Give it time,” said Raven and reached across the table to squeeze her hand.

~~~~~

“Is there a day next week that you'll be free for dinner?” asked Abby out of the blue a few days later.

Clarke cringed with a bite coming toward her mouth, wishing for an excuse to leave the room without answering. Unfortunately, it was an unwritten rule if they were both around for dinner, they would share a meal.

“Probably Wednesday, but I'll double check. Why?”

Abby leaned back in her chair at the dining table and gave Clarke a long, thoughtful look.

“I'd like to bring Marcus over for dinner,” she said without a blink.

Clarke felt immediate bile building in her throat and thrust her plate away.

“No.”

“Clarke, honey, you can't avoid it forever.”

Exhaling, Clarke stood.

“I refuse to be treated like a child who won't let her mom move on. You know that's not what this is. You know what you did,” Clarke told her, glaring down at her mother.

“Ignoring this won't make it go away, Clarke. He is a part of my life now. I know it's not easy for you to accept that—”

“Are you serious right now? Are you really saying these words to me?” Clarke was yelling now.

“Sit down and stop acting like the child you just said you weren't!” her mother yelled back. “Sit down and listen to me, for God's sakes.”

“I said no and I meant no! I won't sit here and look him in the eye! I won't act like it's okay! I won't bless this!”

“You absolutely will be here! You will sit at that table and act like the young woman I raised!”

“You didn't raise me, Dad did! You were never around!”

Clarke knew that she was definitely starting to sound like a three year old who couldn't have the candy she wanted, but the pain was just spilling up and out of her at that point and there was no way to staunch the flow.

She left her dishes behind and ran to the back door. Opening it with a jerk, she slammed it behind her with such force that she felt the wall shudder. Then she ran, tears coming fast and overwhelming her so that she stumbled and fell a couple of times on the way out to her hammock.

Clarke's hands were a mess and one of her wrists was aching like crazy, but she wasn't really in a place to care as she sobbed until she was out of breath and gasping. Her mom came to the door and called out for her.

“Fuck off!” Clarke yelled back and the door shut with a snap.

She'd probably locked her out, but Clarke had no intention of going back inside anyway.

Her body was calming, and she felt the heady sense of leaving it behind as she drifted off into another place where there was no death and no pain and no one else in the world besides herself.

She jumped at the tapping sound against the fence. Clarke almost thought she imagined it until she heard it again, right near the secret gate.

His throat cleared and she heard him muttering, but couldn't make out what he was saying.

“What do you want?” she asked, sitting up in the gently swaying hammock.

“I just... wondered if you maybe wanted a drink? You sound like you could use one,” he called back, voice low.

She bit her lip. It was exactly what she wanted.

“Sure,” she said.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the drinking commence...

And that was how she ended up sitting at the bar in her old house.

“Pick your poison,” he said, pointing to the row of bottles behind him.

The extent of Clarke's knowledge of alcohol was whatever beer Raven's boyfriend had in their fridge when she went over to her friend's house. She shrugged.

“Whatever up there is gonna make me not care anymore,” she told him, waving a careless hand toward the wall.

He smiled and reached for a bottle filled with light brown liquid and poured her about an inch in a glass.

“Watch out, it's gonna burn. But that should help,” Blake said.

She tipped back her head and swallowed it down like it was some sort of healing elixir. He wasn't kidding about that burn. Clarke wondered if maybe she'd swallowed liquid fire or something.

“Good God,” she gasped and gave him a wide smile as he started laughing at her.

“Feeling numb yet?”

Since she definitely still felt like indulging in a fit of angry tears, Clarke pushed the glass toward him, shaking her head.

“I think I need another one,” she said.

He took the glass and set it to one side.

“Why don't we give it a few minutes longer to kick in? When it hits you, it hits hard,” Blake explained, and took her by the elbow to lead her to the couch.

But Clarke would be led by no man.

“Why don't you show me what you've done with the place since you moved in?” she suggested. “The family room looks good.”

It did. There was a comfy L-shaped corduroy-covered couch and a giant man TV with a few gaming systems in the shelves underneath. Everything was warm and brown and there was a large photograph of the woods on one wall. From there, the room moved into a semi-formal dining room, then into the large kitchen and on into a formal living room. Clarke was itching to see what he'd done to the bedrooms.

She followed him down the hall to the first bedroom. It had been a guest bedroom before and that's what it was now. The colors were kind of girlie, a purple and light blue bed and curtains, pictures of star clusters on the wall.

“This is kind of my sister's room. She sleeps here when she gets too drunk to drive back to her house. She picked out the décor,” he told her.

The next room had been her dad's office, here again it was the same.

She hesitated at the door of the master bedroom. It was weird to think of it as the place where her parents had once slept, where she had gone in the middle of the night whenever she had a nightmare.

“It's not that bad, I promise,” he said, and pushed the door open with a hand.

She laughed and laughed when she saw it.

“You turned my parents' room into a workout room?”

Unable to quite believe it, she walked into the room, stepping around a weight set and looked over at the treadmill and then at the rowing machine.

“Well, it's the biggest room in the house, way too big for a bedroom really. And the mirrors on the closet are great for weight training. When I'm done with a workout, I can walk right into the shower,” he explained.

“It's like your own personal gym,” she agreed.

With a sigh of relief and inner chiding for being such a freak, she crossed the hall to her old room.

“So why did you pick this room?” she asked.

“Well, it fits my bed, and there's an attached bathroom. I also love that the sliding glass door goes right out onto the back deck. But really I picked this room because of the built in.”

Clarke turned and looked at the bookcase that took up the entire wall. It was a stair-step design, starting low at the door, and moving all the way up to the ceiling at the top.

“My dad built that for me when I was seven,” she told him. “He said that a lifetime of book reading should start as soon as possible. And then he spent all his time helping me add books to it.”

She looked over at the shelves, now only half-filled.

“But there aren't very many books in here,” Clarke said.

“Yet. I'm not used to buying books. I used to get them from the library, because I didn't exactly have a big book budget growing up.”

Clarke looked over the collection.

“You've read all these since you got here?” she asked, astonished. There had to be at least fifty books there.

“Well, some of them are old favorites that I had to have for my own. But I don't usually do a lot of re-reading, so yeah, most of these are new.”

She leaned in, looking at the titles. She saw classics, _East of Eden,_ _Pride and Prejudice_ , and _Hamlet_. But there was an interesting mix of everything else: history, science fiction, fantasy, biographies.

“You have eclectic taste,” she commented, approvingly. “My dad always used to say that the best type of readers are the ones that explore _all_ worlds. He used to read a book and pass it on to me. Sometimes I'd love it and we'd talk about it for days. Or sometimes I couldn't stand it and we'd argue about it. But it was always interesting, because it was something we did together.”

She felt the tears well up again and swallowed hard. Blake looked away for a moment, giving her time to gather herself, then looked back at her, eyes dark and warm.

“So, which of these is your favorite and why?”

He smiled and closed his eyes, leaning back against the door.

“' _You have to protect yourself from sadness. Sadness is very close to hate. Let me tell you this. This is the thing I learned. If you take in someone else's poison—thinking you can cure them by sharing it—you will instead store it within you.'_ ”

She frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Blake shrugged. “I'm not sure, but I think about it a lot. It's from _The English Patient_ , my favorite book—at least right now.”

“It sounds like a book that would break your heart,” she said.

“Maybe. Or remake it. Here's another bit I love: ' _That night I fell in love with a voice. Only a voice. I wanted to hear nothing more. I got up and walked away.'_ ”

Clarke heard his words and saw his passion for the text and felt something clench in her chest. All of a sudden, he became a person to her, Bellamy Blake, with the dark strands of hair curling over his forehead and the freckles scattering across his high cheekbones. She wanted to lay down in his bed and let him recite passages of books forever. But she held firm, and steadied herself.

“It reminds me of something I've been reading. ' _I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps. I hunger for your sleek laugh'_ ,” Clarke recited.

“Both of them have a kind of desperation to them, don't they? What's yours from?”

“A book of poems by Pablo Neruda,” she said, biting her lip. It was the last book her father had ever given her and she kept it under her pillow, reading a passage every night like some people read the bible. “My dad...” she started and stopped, choking on tears again. Clearly she was not the best companion. Maybe she hadn't had enough whiskey yet or maybe it was this room with all of its memories.

“Can I have another drink now?” Clarke pleaded, brushing at her rebel eyes.

“Sure, of course,” Bellamy agreed.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking buddies?

They went back into the family room, and he popped behind the bar to pour her another glass of the vile liquid. This one felt like it kicked in a lot quicker, or maybe she was already half gone and finally starting to realize it.

“This stool is so uncomfortable,” she said and tried to get off of it without killing herself, which was apparently impossible.

Bellamy had to come help her, an arm around her waist to steady her. She tried not to notice how warm he was, and how tall, and how much she wanted two arms to comfort her right at that moment. She took an appreciative sniff of the side of his neck.

“You smell better than I thought,” she commented conversationally. His replying laughter skittered across her neck and she shivered.

“And how is that?” he asked.

“I don't know. I think I expected more smokiness,” she said.

He took her to the couch and she sank down into it, head falling back. Taking her feet, he lifted them up onto the coffee table and made sure she was able to sit on her own before sitting across from her.

Resting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and spoke the inevitable words.

“I've never heard you guys fight before. I could hear it in my house, that's how loud you got.”

Clarke huffed out a breath and rubbed a hand through her tangled curls. She wondered if she even had to answer him. Was it any of his business? But it was a secret she hadn't even told Raven and it was burning her alive.

“My mom wanted to bring her boyfriend over for family dinner next week,” she said and watched his eyebrows raise in consideration, running through the fact of her father's death.

“It's not just the length of time,” Clarke was quick to assure him. She didn't want to sound like a _completely_ selfish brat.

“It would be okay if it bothered you,” he said.

She shook her head and waved a dismissive hand.

“So last year, I was practically living at the hospital. My mom works there and my dad was there and the hospital staff pretty much just looked the other way when I slept next to him or was up all night with him or whatever. It was what he needed and what I needed and I gave him everything I had in me.

“Anyway, so one night last year I was feeling pretty torn up about the whole thing, I'd woken up from a nightmare. I just wanted some comfort, you know? My mom was on call that night, but she wasn't in the room, so I went to find her. And I did.” She let loose a shaky breath. “I did.”

Her feet slapped against the floor as she leaned forward to cover her face with her hands.

“I couldn't believe it. I was in total shock. I mean, my dad was lying there in a hospital bed, _dying_ , and there she was... with Marcus Kane. I'll never forgive her for that. Never.”

She looked up and saw his eyes, warm and understanding, watching her.

“And for her to act like she's going to be able to bring us all together, is so fucking insulting, you know?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Look, Clarke, if you want to stay in Octavia's room tonight, that'd be fine with me. I know you don't know me very well, but I'm a decent guy. I'm not going to make you go back out to the nest to sleep for the night.”

“It'll be fine. But could I stay here for a little while longer? Just until I get my bearings back?”

Bellamy gave her a half-smile. “Sure. You wanna watch some TV or something?”

“Not really. Could you maybe read some of that _English Patient_ book to me? I'd like to read, but I think my eyes are too tired right now.”

Nodding assent, he went into the other room and came back with it, then sat on the couch, spreading the well-worn pages.

“Should I start at the beginning?” he asked.

Clarke stretched out on the couch and leaned back against the pillow.

“Just read me your favorite part,” she said, closing her eyes.

“' _Nothing can keep him from her. When he is not in the desert with Madox or with Bermann in the Arab libraries, he meets her in Groppi Park—beside the heavily watered plum gardens. She is happiest here. She is a woman who misses moisture, who has always loved low green hedges and ferns.'_ ”

She let the sound of his voice wash over her, let the words tumble down like raindrops on the parched earth. Listening, Clarke sighed, enjoying the luxury of it, the peace.

~~~~

She woke up with a jerk when she felt the warm morning sun hit her face. Realizing that she'd fallen asleep on Bellamy's couch was the first self-assessment, the second was that there was a warm blanket spread over her. Obviously her host had taken pity on her. Clarke smiled to herself and stretched, feeling like a cat after a nap.

On the table next to her was a glass of water and a couple of aspirin. Another sign of his thoughtfulness. There was a note underneath it: _Just in case._

Well, she wasn't feeling bad, just a little fuzzy in the head. But she drank the water because she knew she might be dehydrated. Then she folded the blanket and set it on the couch. Taking the cup and the aspirin, Clarke set them both on the counter.

She found a pen and wrote on the back of the note: _Thank you_.

Then she went home.

~~~~~

Her mother was waiting at the table, a cup of coffee in her hand, staring out at the back yard. She frowned at Clarke's appearance.

“You were out all night,” was all she said.

“Did you really expect me to come home?” Clarke wondered, incredulous. “Why don't you move in with him? Then I can be here and you can be with him.”

 _And I would never have to see you again_. She didn't add the last part, but the words hung around them in the air begging to be spoken.

“It wouldn't look good if one of the hospital administrators and a recently widowed doctor were living together. Not yet, anyway,” said Abby and set down her cup.

“You mean, someone might judge you for getting together with someone else less than a year after your husband died?” Clarke asked. “And then, well, maybe they might figure out the truth, right? Do what you want, but don't try to force me to participate.”

“He'll probably come over sometimes, but I'll warn you,” Abby conceded. “I'm really sorry about the way things worked out, Clarke. But please believe this was in the works before your father—before he...”

“I don't want to talk about it,” said Clarke. She went in her room to get ready for class.

She got home from work late. It had been a stressful day and she just wanted some decompression time, so she went out to her nest. Sitting in her hammock was a ziploc bag and inside it was _The English Patient_.

A post-it note was attached to it and read, _Try not to sleep through it this time._

Clarke couldn't keep the smile from spreading over her face and clutched the book to her chest, reveling in the first book someone had shared with her in over a year.

She stayed up for far too long in the night time, reading it, smiling over the lines and notes he'd made. He wasn't joking when he told her he thought about the book, about what it meant. It had been so long since she'd shared something like this with anyone, she wanted to savor it. But she also couldn't help devouring the book as quickly as a cricket's chirp.

When Clarke woke up the next morning, she considered the Neruda poems, sitting on her bedside table. Knowing what she should do wasn't the same as being ready. Over the course of the day, she considered it, then made up her mind.

Clarke put her copy of Pablo Neruda in a box with a note. _Make sure you return this one. And text me what you think of it_ , she added, with her phone number. Then she left it on the deck next to the chair he sat in when he smoked.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting the family. :D

She didn't hear anything from him until the next day, when she was sprawled out in her nest, studying before class. The air was starting to get warmer and it was feeling decidedly like spring. No more for Clarke the fingerless gloves, and the warm hat. She kept the jacket on, though, because she loved the smell of her father around her.

She was listening to one of her favorite studying playlists, when the music was halted by an incoming text.

_Please tell me you're not at home right now._

Clarke frowned at the screen.

 _Sorry, I can't do that_ , she texted back.

_Damn. At least tell me you're not in your nest._

A deeper frown and then she rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

_Sorry again?_

_No, I'm sorry. My sister is on her way over to pester you._

Sitting up suddenly, Clarke made the whole hammock swing and shake wildly. She turned around and shrieked as she found herself nose-to-nose with an attractive brunette. Hand over her heart, Clarke worked to catch her breath, while Bellamy bellowed over the fence, “Octavia!”

“So you're my brother's wife,” said the girl, presumably Octavia. Which she confirmed by introducing herself and sticking out her hand.

“I married your brother in a formality meant to give us both a larger measure of financial freedom,” Clarke told her. “I don't know if I'd consider myself his _wife_ , merely his legal spouse.”

Octavia laughed and climbed up next to her in the hammock.

“You spent the night at his house,” she said. “And of course you find him attractive. All the girls do.”

Clarke wrinkled her nose.

“He smokes.”

The other girl leaned back, looking up at the ceiling of the gazebo.

“I'll give you that one. He picked it up in the army, like it was a rite of passage or something. I've totally failed making him give it up,” Octavia admitted, sighing.

Clarke wasn't sure what she was supposed to say to that. She settled on changing the subject.

“You know, your brother and I have been married for like four months now, yet this is the first time I've seen you. Why the sudden interest?”

Octavia practically beamed. “When I saw my brother reading _poetry_ , I knew I had to meet you. Bell never reads poetry. Hates the stuff. And now you've got him reading _love poems_?”

Clarke felt the blood as it rushed under the skin of her face and she tried to keep her breathing easy.

“Well, he gave me this book that he liked, so I'm returning the favor,” Clarke replied with a casual half-shrug.

“Wait just a minute! He gave you one of his books?! He never lets me so much as borrow one of his books!” Her loud voice seemed to go right through the center of Clarke's ear drums.

“That's because you treat them like glorified coasters,” said Bellamy, standing just inside the hidden gate between the yards. “The last time I let you read one of my books, it came back to me stained, creased, and pretty much bent in half.”

“Whatever,” said Octavia, crossing her arms. “There's definitely something going on here, and I'm going to figure out what it is. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be in the house, stealing one of your books.”

Bellamy grinned as she slammed past him into his yard, then held out a hand to help Clarke when she fumbled her way out of the hammock. His calloused fingers slid over hers and she found herself wanting to hold on, if for only a moment.

But instead she pulled her hand free and wondered what to do with it. Maybe shove it in the pocket of her sweatshirt? Yeah, that was good.

“So you're reading my book?” she asked, pleased at the thought of him sitting on his couch, pouring over the words.

“I'm reading your book. Are you reading mine?”

He took a step closer and looked down at her, head cocked as though trying to figure her out.

“I'm about halfway through it. It's getting close to finals so I can't read as fast as I usually would. And, it's not really a quick read, either, is it?”

He rubbed his nose and glanced down at his feet.

“No, uh, not really. But it made me think about the power of small moments in time and how they can affect the rest of your life,” he said. “You'll have to tell me if you feel the same way.”

They exchanged a long glance and she found herself leaning, the smallest of increments, towards him.

“Bellamy!” Octavia's voice shouted over the fence. “Where's the Madeline Miller book I was reading the last time I was here?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I better go help her before she disorganizes my whole bookcase.”

Bellamy gave her a half wave over his shoulder and went through the gate.

Quelling her disappointment at being interrupted—it was silly—she got back to her studying.

~~~~~

_So, what does it mean when your wife gives you a book of sex poems?_

Clarke choked on her drink when she glanced down at her phone.

“What is it?” asked Raven. “You look weird.”

Nibbling on her lip, Clarke turned off the screen.

“I-I think I have the hots for my husband,” she confessed, and then it was Raven's turn to choke.

“But you don't even know him!” Raven protested. “You said he was annoying.”

“I don't know what happened,” said Clarke, rubbing away the line between her eyebrows. She explained what had occurred the night she and her mother had their fight.

“And then somehow you found yourself drunk and in his bedroom,” said Raven, one brow raised.

Clarke spit out her tongue at the girl across the table and played with the straw of her smoothie. She looked down at her phone.

 _You started it with your book,_ she texted back.

His reply was immediate. _My book? My book is about the different types of wind. This is a direct quote from your book:_

_Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,_

_smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:_

_you have moon-lines, apple pathways:_

_naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat._

Clarke huffed a laugh and shook her head.

Another text from Bellamy:

 _Your book is naughty_.

There was no use explaining the zing in the pit of her stomach when she read those last words. Ignoring Raven's inquiring look, she dug through her messenger bag for the book she carried everywhere with her these days. She hadn't finished it yet, but she was very close, and there was a passage she'd read that she texted him now.

 _Types of wind? “The boy's desire completed itself only in his deepest sleep while in the arms of Hana, his orgasm something more to do with the pull of the moon, a tug of his body by the night.” Correct me if I'm wrong, but the book I gave you didn't mention the word 'orgasm' one time_.

“What did you just text him?” asked Raven. “Your face is bright pink.”

The observation was only fair, considering all the blood Clarke felt rushing to her face. She was treading dangerous waters. Meanwhile, she wasn't even sure if he liked her. But he _had_ sent the text.

Clarke held the phone to Raven. Her friend looked at her and shook her head.

“I don't want to see your dirty little texts,” she said, waving a hand at Clarke as if to shoo her phone away.

“Just tell me, does it seem like he's flirting with me? Do you think he's interested? I have like zero experience with guys, except for high school,” Clarke pleaded, pushing the phone into Raven's hand.

Eyebrows raised, Raven took the phone and scanned the contents on the screen. She laughed and looked up, shaking her head.

“Honey, he's definitely interested. And what book is he talking about?”

“I gave him that book of Neruda poems my dad gave me to read,” Clarke said offhandedly.

“Hold up, your dad gave you a book of sex poems?”

“Ewwww... NO. They're love poems. He'd had the book for years. He, uh... he gave it to me before he died. Said he wanted to make sure I knew what real love is. He did a lot of stuff like that near the end,” Clarke said, and shrugged, blinking back the tears.

Raven leaned forward, placing a hand over Clarke's.

“Oh my god, Clarke. You really like him.”

Clarke nodded, biting her lip, fiddling with the straw of her drink.

“Just... be careful, okay. Remember, you barely know this guy, husband or not,” Raven chided.

Blowing a breath out, Clarke leaned back in her chair.

“I've got too much going on right now to pursue anything, so I guess it's just as well. School is the most important thing right now.”

As though sensing her awkwardness, Raven changed the subject and they went on to other topics.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's short, but I'll post two today because I'll be out of town tomorrow. :)

She and Bellamy continued to text, but Clarke was at school more than she was at home during the final weeks of class, so she hadn't seen him for a while. Most of the time, she collapsed in bed and passed out, only to wake up at the crack of dawn—heading right back to school.

But, finally, classes were over for the semester, and Clarke had the unadulterated joy of a few weeks off from school before her two summer classes started. The night of her last final, she went out with Raven and some school friends and drank until she could hardly see straight. At some point past midnight, she stumbled from the cab to her house and fell into bed.

The next morning was less than pleasant, thanks to the horrible hangover she had—courtesy of last night's copious alcohol consumption.

“Oh god,” she moaned and rolled out of bed to stumble to the kitchen for pain meds and water. Instead she was met with the sight of Marcus Kane in jeans and an old t-shirt, drinking coffee and reading on his tablet—right there at the kitchen table. He looked up, took in her rumpled clothes from the night before and the cranky look on her face.

“There's coffee in the pot,” was all he said before going back to his reading.

Meanwhile, she seethed. It was pouring down rain, but Clarke slammed through the front door, walking barefoot down the wet sidewalk and around to the side gate. She let herself through, knowing Bellamy wouldn't care, knowing that she couldn't be in her own house. Not while _he_ was there.

“She promised, she promised to tell me,” Clarke mumbled as she shut the gate behind her. Her head was pounding, even the cloudy morning was too bright, and her naked feet slipped from underneath her till she fell, skinning her knees on the rough sidewalk, scraping her hand and elbow.

She lay there on the ground, trying to gain her bearings, feeling like the world was crashing down around her.

“Could this be any more stupid and dramatic?” she wondered, sitting up, brushing off her now ruined and ripped skirt. She looked up, squinty-eyed at the water as it rushed toward earth, little punishing droplets. Lowering her head, Clarke closed her eyes and listened to the soft rush of the rain as it fell into the pool and all around her. It was soothing, but also icy cold, so she made herself stand up and walk the rest of the way to Bellamy's back door.

Clarke didn't see him in the living room or kitchen, so she hoped that he was awake as she knocked on the slider. In a few seconds she saw him walk out into the foyer—shirtless and in frayed jeans—looking around, curious, and then he caught sight of her. That was enough to send him plowing toward her.

“Clarke, oh my god, what happened to you?” he said, reaching for her with both hands as he pulled her gently into the house, examining her now freely bleeding hand.

“Nothing much, I just slipped outside. It'll be fine with a band aid or something. Or a towel if you don't have a band aid,” she said, aware of how she was dripping blood on the tiles beneath her.

“Sit,” he said, after he'd led her to one of the stools that lived next to the bar and disappeared from the room.

A few minutes later he came back holding a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a cotton ball, and a band-aid box. He set them on the bar and pulled a dry wash cloth from his back pocket and padded over to the sink to get it wet. The cloth was warm when he put it against her hand, with the softest of movements cleaning the scrape. He moved it to her elbow and then both of her knees.

Using the cotton swab, he disinfected everything with alcohol, blowing a soft breath across them to ease the sting. She shivered at the closeness of his lips to her skin and made herself look away from him and concentrate on the pain. Clarke knew she was being an idiot. But at least the pain from her small wounds was distracting her from the headache that still rang through her skull.

After he had bandaged everything, he took in her soaked clothes, eyes lingering for a moment on her chest before moving away guiltily. She almost smiled, it was so cute.

“I, uh, guess we should get you out of those wet clothes,” he said.

Clarke couldn't help the gasp that left her lips.

“No! I mean, I know that Octavia has some clothes here that you can borrow. Or I guess you could go back over to your place...” His voice trailed off as he gazed down at her wet and muddy bare feet.

His eyebrows slammed together as though everything had suddenly gelled in his drowsy brain.

“Why are you over here barefoot so early in the morning? You're a mess and that's not like you,” he said, taking in her snarled hair and pale face.

“Oh, nothing. My mom let her _lover_ stay over last night and neglected to warn me. When I woke up all hung over from celebrating the end of the semester with my friends last night, he was there, drinking coffee, in my kitchen.”

She slumped forward and put her head in her hands.

“I know I'm being an over-dramatic idiot, but I hate that man so much I can't even stand to be in the same room with him,” she explained, voice muffled by her arms.

He sat next to her and put his hand on her head like he was palming a basketball, “Clarke, you're allowed to hate him. He fucked up your family while your dad was dying.”

Her head popped up and his hand dropped to his side. Clarke blinked back her tears and said, “I'm freezing. Could we maybe see about those clothes?”

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke may or may not be wearing some of Bellamy's clothes in this one... O.O

Bellamy gave her a half grin and led her to Octavia's room. He got a towel for her from the bathroom and left her to dry off and change, after showing her where Octavia kept her clothes for when she stayed over.

But try as she might, Clarke could not fit in anything. Bellamy's sister had a tiny ass.

“Bellamy, none of this stuff fits,” she called through the door. “Is there any way I could borrow something of yours?”

“Sure,” he called back. “Just a minute.”

She had the towel safely wrapped around herself when he tapped on the door and Clarke opened it a crack so he could shove some things in: t-shirt, zip-up hoodie, cut-off sweats, crew cut socks. She hurried to dress and sighed over the warmth that crept over her. Everything smelled like Bellamy, too, which was an added bonus.

He laughed when she walked into the kitchen.

“You look like a kid playing dress-up,” he said, gesturing her over to the table, where a cup of water, two pills and a mug of steaming coffee waited. “I was thinking about a bacon and egg sandwich, does that sound good? I always want greasy food when I'm hung over.”

“It sounds amazing,” said Clarke, taking a deep and appreciative sniff of her coffee. “Can I please have some milk? I'm kind of a wimp about black coffee.”

He pulled out some creamer from the fridge and gave her a wink as he set it next to her cup. “No worries, I am too,” he admitted then turned back to the breakfast he was making.

They chatted about their book exchange while he cooked and Clarke felt all the tension and earlier angst drift away. It was amazing how relaxed Bellamy made her. All the rules and order that she lived her life by seemed silly when she was in his company.

He sat in the seat across from hers while they ate.

“So school's out for summer, huh? Have any big plans?” he asked.

“Not for the next month. I have my job, of course, but nothing else except that until I start summer session,” she told him.

“Why am I not surprised? You will push through life until you die, won't you?”

Clarke shrugged and took a bite of her sandwich. She chewed and swallowed.

“I can't help who I am. I'm not really good at the do-nothing life you seem to enjoy,” she teased.

He looked affronted.

“I do stuff. I work on my car and I read a lot,” he said. “It's really the perfect life and I have you to thank for it.”

She laughed. “You're welcome, I guess. Seriously though, won't you get bored doing only that for the rest of your life?”

“Fair question. I'm not sure. I decided that I'm going to do whatever feels right. Currently, doing nothing is what feels right. Who knows what I may decide to do tomorrow?”

“You seem to like history a lot. Have you ever considered traveling to some of the places you've read about?”

Nodding, he said, “Eventually, definitely I want to. But I'd like to be a little more well-read first. Maybe read an entire history of Europe and Asia before I do. That way I can really feel like the sights come to life for me.”

He talked about some of the places around Italy and Greece that he was already planning to visit at some point in the future and then they got started talking about books again.

“So now that you finished _The English Patient_ , what will you read?” he asked.

She leaned back in her chair, considering the question for a moment. “I think I want to read it again. There's so much that I didn't understand when I was reading the first time because of how it skips around. I think I need to read it knowing some of the story underneath the characters. Do you think Ondaatje planned it that way?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. But I've read that book so many times I think I have it memorized and I _still_ find new things to think about when I read it. His work is like a fever dream, like floating through a cloud, trying to grab hold of it. I guess what I mean is, good luck with your re-read.”

He stood up to clear away the dishes and her gaze moved down his strong back, catching for the first time on the small patch on his shoulder.

She took her dishes to the sink and couldn't resist poking it once.

“Is that a nicotine patch?” she asked. He turned and felt uncomfortably close.

“Yeah. I'm trying to quit smoking.”

She moved to a safe distance, putting the counter between them—otherwise she might not be able to keep her hands to herself.

“Really? What brought that about?”

He brushed a hand through his rumpled curls, stomach flexing. Moving out of the kitchen he went over to one of the couches.

“I think it was being told my mouth tasted like... what was it? Oh yeah, shit and ashes,” he said, smirking.

Clarke found herself idly wondering what his mouth would taste like now and had to work really hard not to look at it.

“Well, I'm sure it will be a relief to the next girl you kiss,” she told him after she'd moved to the other couch, pulling her legs up to sit cross-legged.

“Any time you want, Clarke, feel free to try it out and let me know,” Bellamy said and she stiffened, heart pounding, wondering how serious he was. He was looking at her all sultry-eyed, but he also still had that teasing smirk on his face. Her teeth came down on her lower lip as she risked a glance at his mouth and when he saw that his smile disappeared. But he didn't move.

She was debating whether or not to take him up on his offer when there was a knock on the front door.

Bellamy got up to answer it and Clarke heard her mother's voice.

“I was thinking that my daughter might be over here,” she said.

Clarke didn't hear Bellamy's reply, but she was angry so she didn't hesitate to spring up from the couch and confront her mom.

Abby looked her up and down, taking in her bare feet and the clothes she was wearing. Her lips pressed together for a moment, but she didn't say whatever she was thinking.

“He's gone, Clarke. And I'm sorry about that. I did send you a text, but I guess you didn't get it,” she told her daughter.

“I don't want to see him, Mom,” Clarke hissed. Her hands clenched at her sides and Abby sighed.

“Can we please talk about this later?” Her eyes moved to where Bellamy was standing, shirtless, behind Clarke.

“Fine. I'll be over in a minute,” she said, dismissing her mother.

Abby left without a backward glance. Clarke turned to face Bellamy.

“Thanks again, for everything,” Clarke said.

He frowned down at her and put a hand on her arm.

“I want you to have a key so you can come over here if you need to,” he told her. “And next time, put on some shoes first.”

He left and came back with a key that he held out to her. She slipped it in the pocket of the sweatshirt and hesitated on the verge of leaving.

She looked up at him, feeling his gaze sweep over her face and she stood on her toes, palms pressing against his shoulders for balance. He didn't move a muscle as her lips met his, but she felt his body tense up and wondered if he would push her away.

Clarke kept the kiss soft and light, but couldn't help giving his bottom lip a delicate swipe of her tongue, smiling to herself as she lowered back down.

“That really is much better,” she conceded, before turning away to run through the rain back to her own house.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has Bellamy lost interest???

She was just inside the door, slipping her—or rather, Bellamy's—socks off to ball up and put in the laundry when Abby's voice called her. Clarke was still holding them in her hand when her mom placed a cup of coffee on the counter and pushed it towards her.

“I really am sorry, Clarke,” she said after Clarke had ducked into her room for slippers and come back in the kitchen.

“It's okay. I checked my phone. You did text me, but I was pretty out of it last night, so I didn't see it,” Clarke reassured her.

Abby sighed and looked down at the cup in front of her.

“How long is it going to take, Clarke?” she asked, her eyes up and looking at her daughter.

“How long were you married to Dad before you cheated on him?”

“That's not fair!” Abby said. “You have no idea what was going on between your father and I before he got sick. There are two sides to every marriage.”

“Oh, so was Dad cheating too?”

“Never mind,” said Abby dismissing the subject. “Let's talk about something else.”

“Like what?” Clarke wondered, eyebrows raised.

“How well do you know him? How close are the two of you?”

“Kane and I? I hardly know him at all,” Clarked answered.

“Not him. I mean, _him_ ,” said Abby, pointing toward the house next door. “Your... uh...”

“My husband? We're friends. I know him pretty well.”

“Ugh, don't call him that. Just because he blackmailed you into marrying him so he could have access to whatever untold millions he wanted to party with doesn't make him your husband,” said Abby.

“He doesn't party, and besides the house, I haven't seen him like out spending crazily or anything. He doesn't even have a new car,” Clarke pointed out. “And I can call him anything I want.”

Abby ran her eyes along Clarke's body, covered in Bellamy's sweats.

“Clarke, marriage isn't about some good-looking guy with a lot of money being nice to you. It's about long-term commitment and fidelity. It's about love,” Abby argued.

“Oh please, like you'd know,” said Clarke and she turned her back on her mother and went to her room.

~~~~~

She really couldn't understand why they hadn't kissed yet. Clarke had seen him so many times since then. She'd brought his clothes back. She'd gone to a couple of his barbeques, she'd swam in his pool. But nothing, not even a smoldering look in her direction.

A dozen times, Clarke considered the glance he'd given her when he'd told her to kiss her any time, full of promise. And now she saw only cautious friendship in his face. What had happened?

Had she crossed a line? Was she a complete and total idiot for staring at his mouth every time she saw him now, wondering if his lips would taste as good as they had before?

 _Only 13 year old girls obsess over boys this much, Clarke_ , she chided herself _Pull yourself together._

And she tried, God help her, she tried. But whenever her fingers got near a pencil, she started sketching that beautiful nose, wide smile, each and every one of the freckles dusting his nose. She touched her own lips and imagined any kind of kiss that would come to mind. Yeah, she had it so bad for him.

Her phone dinged and she saw a text from her mom.

 _Company tonight_ , _run for Raven's if you don't want to be around_.

Lip between her teeth, Clarke considered her options. Sure, she could go over to Raven's house. But Raven didn't have rumpled black curls and an enticing chin dimple.

_Hey, I know its short notice, but could I crash at your place tonight? My mom just texted me that she's bringing HIM home and Raven is out of town._

She packed some overnight things and waited around for his reply hoping that she wouldn't have to go somewhere else.

_Yeah, that's fine. You can stay in O's room. I'm picking up a part for my car right now, but feel free to head over whenever._

Clarke went through the back fence gate and stowed her things in the guest room, then got to work on her latest sketch, a picture for Raven's birthday. It was a steampunk rendition of her friend, with a braced and bracketed leg, and an arm that was part riveter, part drill. She was debating whether or not to add Wick—Raven was so weird about their relationship, even though the pair were living together.

Hearing the sound of his garage door opening, Clarke forced herself to calm down. It was just Bellamy and nothing had changed.

It was a few minutes before he came in, heading straight for the fridge.

“Did you buy food?” he asked, head still inside as he rooted around.

“I thought I'd make you dinner tonight as a thank you,” she gave him a half smile.

“Fine by me,” he said, and got to work on making a sandwich, after asking her if she wanted one. She shook her head.

He sat next to her and she stiffened when he leaned over her shoulder to look down at her picture, his breath ghosting across the bare skin there.

_Remain calm, remain calm._

Pulling back to eat his sandwich, he watched her sketch in silence as he ate. When he was done, he licked a dab of mustard off his thumb and Clarke's eyes were riveted to that tongue darting out across the thumb knuckle. She tried not to imagine what it would feel like on her body and turned away.

“Can I look at your sketch pad?” he asked.

She passed it toward him and he flipped through it, occasionally asking a question or two. When he got to Octavia, he stopped.

“Wow, Clarke, this is amazing. You really captured her free spirit, didn't you?” Bellamy paged through the rest of it and looked up at her. “You have a picture of O in here, but none of me?”

Clarke thought of the approximately 573 sketches of Bellamy she had hidden in a box under her bed right at that very moment, but she shrugged and pulled the pad of paper back towards her.

“I guess I haven't been very inspired,” was all she said.

“Huh.”

Bellamy strode out of the room, hands shoved in his pockets. She wondered briefly if he was mad about it, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it occurred to her and got back to work.

She was starting in on the delicate shading of Raven's cheekbone several hours later when her mechanical pencil ran out of lead. It was a common occurrence and she reached for the pack that housed her extra lead and eraser sticks, only to realize it was still at home on her desk.

Walking through the garage and out onto the driveway, she peered over at her house. Kane's car was parked in front.

“Damn,” she muttered. Bellamy looked up from whatever he was doing under the hood.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm out of pencil lead for my sketch. Do you have a pencil I can borrow?”

He swiped a hand across his face, leaving a tiny smudge of grease on one freckled cheek that she immediately wanted to kiss. _Gross_ , she chided herself. _You want to kiss grease now? You are disgusting, Griffin._

“Yeah, sure, look in my office,” he told her.

Bellamy's office was completely the opposite of his neatly organized house. She laughed to herself to see papers strewn everywhere, books and pens and crumpled balls of paper that hadn't managed to make it to a trash can.

She saw the pencils in an old broken mug on the corner of his desk and took one, only to have her attention snagged by the printout laying on top of a pile.

_Character Study: Tamar of Georgia_

_-Proud_

_-Vain_

_-Ruthless_

_-Confident_

_-Loyal_

- _Father brought her into the government and crowned her as co-king._

_-Legacy of anti-aristocratic leanings_

_-Ruled with father for 6 years_

_-Ruled after father's death as sovereign king_

_-Put down 3 rebellions_

_-Divorced her first husband, married a badass warrior who loved and supported her_

_-Went with her husband into battle several times._

_-Referred to as the “King of Kings”_

Clarke puzzled over the words and then riffled through the papers underneath it. There were story outlines, research requests, and more character studies. She wondered briefly if he was writing a history of the lady or something, but then the thought flitted from her mind when she considered Bellamy's hunched shoulders as he left the room earlier.

There was no reason why she couldn't draw something of him to please him. Something small.

In the end, Clarke drew his nose—just his nose—on a small piece of paper that she left on his desk. _That should do it_ , she thought, smiling to herself.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out he is writing a book.

“What's this?” he asked later, after he'd come inside to wash and change before dinner. He slipped into his office for a second as she was serving the food and came back holding out the nose like it was a small piece of poison she'd left for him to swallow.

Looking up from the food, Clarke raised an eyebrow.

“It's a nose?”

He snorted and rolled his eyes with a huff.

“I _see_ it's a nose. But exactly why was there a nose on my desk?”

“You said I didn't draw any pictures of you. Look! It's a picture!”

Pursing his lips, he shook his head and sat down, tucking into the food.

It was a simple meal, just pasta with a zucchini and ricotta sauce, but Bellamy showed his appreciation for it by eating everything she'd put on his plate and having another helping afterward.

They ate in silence for a while, but then she brought up the papers she'd seen in his office.

“Are you writing a history book or something?” she asked, then took a sip of her drink.

He choked on his food a little, looking at her with wide eyes. After a moment, he seemed to calm, and said, “I forgot, you were in my office. Nosing around, huh?”

She hissed at his lame joke and shrugged. “You know I like to read.”

“We've talked about my life before all this,” Bellamy began, waving an arm around her former house. “But I don't think I've talked about O very much. Her dad, my stepfather, was an asshole. An abusive asshole.”

Sighing, Clarke reached a tentative hand to brush against his. To her surprise he grabbed ahold of one of her fingers.

“My mom married him when I was pretty young. I was lucky. He left me alone, mostly. Octavia, though, he seemed to have a personal vendetta against her. I always thought it was because he wanted a boy and she was the tiniest little bit of a girl, so pretty and feminine.”

He almost seemed to choke on the words as they came out now.

“He would lock in her in the closet, where it was dark and cold, for hours. Sometimes, when he was gone at work, or if he was really drunk and passed out somewhere, I would sneak her food or let her out for a while.

“I wasn't always a tough guy. I couldn't help her. I tried to get my mom to leave the son of a bitch, but she was weak. She couldn't do it. And one night, when I tried to fight him, he kicked me out of the house. I was just barely eighteen.

“I left after that, and didn't look back for a while. I think I was in shock. I had already graduated high school, and joined the army. When my term ended, an army buddy—Lincoln—and I got a place together and I started looking for Octavia.”

Pausing again, he worked up the energy to finish.

“Turns out she ended up in the system for some petty crime. She did it to get out of his house. I fought for custody of her, and won, somehow. She was seventeen by then. A year later, my mom died after being beaten to death and O's father ended up in prison.

“It was a shitty life for her and she didn't deserve any of it. And I was such a little fuck that I only cared about my own skin for a while. I've been trying to make it up to her, but the truth is, I can't erase those years where I left her behind.”

“But you're doing your best now,” Clarke argued. “And she doesn't seem to resent you at all.”

He brushed his fingers through his hair, back and forth, expelling a slow breath. He didn't let go of her hand.

“There's a lot of stuff, Clarke. We don't talk about it, and maybe we pretend that it's not there, but it is. So, I dunno. I was reading and ran across this lady, this like actual warrior princess and it made me think of her. And suddenly I couldn't get it out of my head. I started writing this book about Badass Queen Tamar as if she was secretly my sister. When it's done, I'll give it to her.”

Clarke felt tears welling up, but didn't let them spill over. She looked at him and let him see her admiration.

“Don't look at me like that,” he said and glanced away, finally removing his hand from hers.

“Like what?”

“Like I'm not a complete shit.”

“Oh my god, Bellamy. It was out of your control! What were you gonna do, murder the guy?”

He gave a bleak grimace.

“Maybe I should have,” Bellamy said, and swallowed hard.

“Bellamy...” she chided, voice trailing off.

He pushed away from the table and took his dishes to the sink to rinse them off and put them in the dish washer. Clarke got up to follow him, but he mumbled something about working on his car and left the room.

She stayed up for a while, putting the final touches on the picture for Raven. Then she quickly sketched a little picture of Bellamy's hand and stuck it to the fridge with a magnet before she went to bed.

~~~~~

When she woke up in the morning, she had a text from her mom and Bellamy's door was firmly shut. The hand sketch was gone, Clarke saw, and she smiled to herself.

Sighing, she gathered up her things, wishing she could stay longer. But Kane was gone and her mother wanted to “talk”, so with a pit in her stomach, she shuffled next door.

Why couldn't she and her mother get along? Oh, right, because her mom was cheating on her cancer-ridden husband before he died, suffering, in a hospital bed.

Her mom was sitting at the table with two cups of coffee and Clarke took hers, sitting across from her mother, who looked like she had swallowed a bitter pill and was still regretting the taste.

Clarke tilted her head, considering her mother.

“What happened, did you get dumped?”

Abby cleared her throat and pushed the coffee cup away from her.

“No, I didn't. The opposite, in fact. He asked me to marry him and move in together.”

Clarke felt a whoosh of relief and let out a breathy laugh.

“Well, that's fine then. Go off with your fiance and I'll stay here by myself.”

Rubbing a hand over her face, her mother blew out a long breath.

“We were up all night, talking about this, Clarke. We know that the way we got together was somewhat unorthodox, but we've agreed to throw off the past and embrace a new future together.”

Clarke narrowed her eyes and felt the knot in her stomach again.

“What in the heck does that mean?” she asked. She didn't really want to hear the answer, but she knew it was coming anyway, so she might as well get it over with.

“It means that he is going to sell his place, and I'm going to sell mine.”

Her voice was steel and barred no arguments. Of course, a little thing like that never stopped Clarke.

“You have no right,” she objected.

“It was my money that paid for this house in the first place,” Abby argued.

“And it was my marriage that helped us keep it,” Clarke argued back. “You owe me.”

“I'm paying for your schooling, and I'm offering you a place to live, if you want it. But Clarke, this place has got to go. Can't you feel it? This house is hanging over us like a curse.”

Hearing the words, bitter and cutting, made Clarke's eyes fill.

“This is all I have left of Dad and you want to get rid of it, like you would some old shirt at a garage sale.”

“Clarke—”

She left the room and didn't speak to her mother for the rest of the week, until Abby cornered her on the way to work.

“I have a buyer for the house. He'll take it as-is, but we have to be out by the end of the month.”

“That's two weeks away!” Clarke objected.

“I've already signed the paperwork, so I suggest you take it up with your husband,” Abby said, turning away.

“Bellamy?” Clarke asked, “what does he have to do with this?”

“I thought the two of you talked about everything,” said Abby, brows raised. “He's my buyer.”

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to move... but where?

“Bellamy!” Clarke called out, when she ran next door and saw his car. She tried the door, which was unlocked, and walked into the house, still yelling.  
She stopped with a yelp when he popped out of his office doorway, brows down, looking at her through a pair of black glasses. She fought the strange and terrible urge to jump him and strip off everything but those delicious frames and have her wicked way with him. Clarke told herself to get to the point.  
“What's up, Griffin?” he asked.  
“You're buying my house? Again??” she demanded.  
His face was one giant question mark as he stared at her.  
“You're buying the tiny ass house I live in now?”  
Realization finally dawned and he cleared his throat.  
“I, uh, I thought you knew. Your mom implied—”  
“Why in God's name would you buy that crap hole?” she asked, avoiding the obvious discussion.  
“For Octavia and Lincoln. And there's a lot of reasons: it's close, they need someplace more permanent, and it's one more way I can start to pay her back for everything she's been through.”  
Clarke sighed and slumped to the floor, putting her head in her hands. She ran her fingers through her hair and groaned loudly.  
“You really make it impossible to hate you,” she said, her covered face muffling her words.  
Bellamy slumped down opposite her in the hallway.  
“You want to hate me?” he asked, voice low.  
She shrugged and let her legs fall into a cross-legged position.  
“No, but, God Bellamy, that house was all I had left, you know?”  
“For the record, your mom told me you were glad to be rid of it.”  
Huffing out a harsh breath of air, Clarke glared toward the house next door.  
“For the record, she's a liar. I didn't know and I didn't approve.”  
He nodded and brushed a thumb across his kneecap.  
“You know if I don't buy it, someone else is going to,” he reasoned. “And they'll probably just take it for the land and bulldoze everything next door.”  
Pursing her lips, Clarke gave him a long glance.  
“You're probably right. To be honest, it's not even your problem.”  
Standing on somewhat wobbly legs, Clarke straightened her shoulders.  
“I hate to leave it, is all. I'll find somewhere else to live. If my mother thinks she can use this to make me support her relationship, she is very wrong.”  
She turned to leave, and found herself pulled back by his hand on her arm. Clarke gave Bellamy a questioning glance.  
“You could stay here,” he told her, rubbing the back of his neck, daring a glance up at her.  
“Um...”  
“I mean, O won't need her room anymore. And it'd be rent free. You could stay until you save up enough to get your own place,” Bellamy offered.  
Trying to keep her heart from pounding and her breathing calm, Clarke imagined all the possibilities of living with Bellamy full time. It was an intriguing thought. Maybe she could even sneak into his room one night. What would he do then?  
She shook her head, pushing away the delightful visions that were crowding out her thoughts.  
“Is that a no?” he said, mouth quirked.  
“Huh? Yes, I mean no. I mean, thanks, Bellamy. It would really help me out.”  
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he grinned at her.  
“I guess it's the least I can do, since I made you homeless, right?”  
They stood in the hall, grinning at each other for a few long moments before the air became charged with that indefinable zing that seemed to happen whenever they both realized they occupied the same space. Bellamy was, as always, the first to break the spell.  
“I have to get back to my writing,” he said with an apologetic half-shrug. “But I'll let O know what's going on, so she can get her crap out of my house.”  
Clarke went back to her place, deciding as she did that she wouldn't tell Abby a thing. Let her think everything was going her way.  
~~~~~  
It was a busy week of packing and working, and in the midst of all the chaos was the start of summer session. Yet somehow, Clarke managed to help Octavia clear her stuff out of Bellamy's house, the two girls laughing and teasing each other the whole way.  
“I would have let you stay with us if you wanted,” Octavia commented at one point. “Until you could get your own place. But I think Bell would have killed me if I offered.”  
Clarke's eyes flew up to meet the cool gaze of her packing companion. She bit her lip.  
“Would he, though?” Clarke asked after a moment, feeling uncertain of it.  
“You like him, right?”  
Clarke glanced down at the shirt she was folding, refusing to answer the question.  
“What we need to do is just lock you two in a room together and let all that fabulous chemistry do our work for us,” Octavia said.  
“Your brother would probably bury his nose in a book and pretend I don't exist,” Clarke laughed and added another shirt to the pile.  
“Not if you're naked!” Octavia suggested.  
Clarke rolled her eyes and finished boxing up the clothes. By the end of the afternoon they were done and ready to put the boxes in the garage to wait for the couple's new home to be ready.  
“Stay for dinner,” Octavia ordered. “Lincoln's cooking. You'll love it.”  
It turned out that both men had KP duty, so she and Clarke spent their time giggling over the dirty pictures that Octavia insisted she sketch. Clarke was careful to do one serious sketch of Bellamy's left eyebrow and lay it at his place on the table.  
He glanced at her when they all finally sat down, shaking his head at the single eyebrow, but she noticed he slipped it into his pocket all the same.  
After dinner, Clarke had to excuse herself to study, but Octavia promised to come by when Clarke was done working the next day to help her pack up her own room.  
~~~~~  
The room was a whirlwind of disorganized piles by the time they were halfway through it—clothing strewn here and there. Clarke was digging through the closet, trying to decide if she really needed seven pairs of boots at Bellamy's house when it wasn't even winter.  
“You know, there's a whole hunk of stuff under the bed that you haven't even touched yet,” Octavia noted, as Clarke reached an arm into the back of the closet, trying to catch an elusive shoe.  
“It's only—” Her voice cut off as she remembered what exactly was lurking under the bed. “No, wait!” Clarke cried, but it was too late. Octavia was sliding a thin cardboard box out. She was lifting off the lid. She was running her fingers through all of the many sketches Clarke had made of Bellamy. She was laughing her ass off.  
“Oh my God, Clarke. You totally have the hots for my brother!” she screamed out.  
Clarke flopped on the floor, face in her hands. She wallowed in the embarrassment for a few moments, before an even worse possibility occurred to her.  
“Octavia,” she said, sitting up quickly and clasping the younger woman by the shoulders. “You can't tell him.”  
“Why not? I bet he'd love to know you've got a not-so-secret crush,” Octavia said, giving Clarke a mischievous grin.  
“Octavia, please. Please, please, pleeeeeease, don't tell Bellamy,” Clarke pleaded, giving Octavia her best puppy dog look.  
“Fine!” said Octavia, rolling her eyes. “I promise I won't tell him. In fact, I'll pack the box at the bottom of this box over here so my darling brother's eyes never see it.”  
And saying so, she put it at the bottom with layer upon layer of shirts on top of it.  
By the end of the day, Octavia had moved at least a dozen boxes over to the house next door. Afterward, she left to meet Lincoln for dinner. Which was great because the time of reckoning with her mother was at hand.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *insert relevant music here*

“I actually had a feeling something like this was coming,” said Abby, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Oh good. So we're cool then,” said Clarke.

“Clarke, this is ridiculous. Honey, you're going to move in with this man? He's practically a stranger. And he married you to get his money,” Abby argued.

“First of all, I married him to get _our_ money. And he's not a stranger. I've met his friends and his family and spent a lot of time with him. Now, tell me you're going to accept this and not pull that usual controlling crap you do where you threaten to end my funding for school. Because if you do pull the usual controlling crap, then I'm going to threaten never to let you meet your grandchildren.”

Abby startled her by laughing out loud.

“Kane says that I need to stop being such a pushy mother. I'm not allowed to make you live with us.”

Clarke privately thought that it was the first thing he'd ever done that had made her not outright loathe him.

“Well then, maybe we can set one day a week where we meet for dinner or something,” Clarke said.

“Kane too?” Abby asked.

“Don't push your luck, Mom,” Clarke said, rising from the couch. “I've got a few more boxes to take over, so I'm gonna go.”

With a chin-high load of boxes, Clarke made her way next door mostly by feel, toes bumping over every edge and obstacle. She had her mom open the front door for her, rolling her eyes when she got a lecture about taking a reasonable load.

Knocking on the door of her new abode, she waited for Bellamy to pull his nose away from his computer and come open the door for her. When it opened, the boxes were taken right from her arms, causing a small whoosh of surprise to leave her mouth. He set them on the ground near the formal living room and turned back to her, clutching a piece of paper in one hand. His brows were furrowed, his brown eyes swimming with questions.

“I thought I didn't inspire you?” he asked, after clearing his throat. He held up a familiar looking sketch.

Clarke gasped and walked over to snatch the picture away from him and stared down at it in horror. It was one of the shirtless studies she'd done of him a few weeks back when she'd still imagined he wanted to kiss her.

“Dammit Octavia,” she muttered. She looked at him, eyes fiery. “I want my sketches back.”

He nodded, looking down at her, still frowning.

“Of course,” still nodding, he moved closer, coming into her space.

“Bellamy, did you hear me? I want my sketches.”

She hated the way her voice got higher, but she could smell his clean skin and feel his breath on her cheek and her pulse was kicking up like drums in a rock song.

His hand slipped around her waist and settled on her lower back, making her stiffen in surprise.

“Bellamy?” she asked.

“Clarke,” he answered.

His lips nuzzled her cheek then, asking questions of their own, and her breath kicked up even more. Her hand reached out to grasp his upper arm, squeeze it. Bellamy's lips hesitated for a moment before trailing down to her neck to find her collar bone. A soft sigh left her mouth and she grabbed him with her other hand, pulling him closer.

“I didn't want to pressure you into anything, not after that lecture your mom gave me about transference and shit,” he whispered against her skin. “Our marriage is messy enough, motivation-wise. I had to be sure it wasn't some weird forced proximity thing.”

“It's not, Bellamy,” she told him, then gasped, “Bell,” when he unbuttoned the top buttons of her shirt so his lips could trail down from her collar bone to the sloping curve of her breast. He nuzzled at the cleavage for one heady moment, then stopped to look her in the eye again. He swallowed hard, then smiled.

“There were a lot of sketches in that box,” he said, his eyes hooded, mouth quirking up smugly.

“Shut up and kiss me,” she told him, and he obliged, before doing that thing guys always do in corny romance novels where they pick up the girl and carry her to bed.

He set her down right inside the doorway, leaning down to kiss her again—a proper kiss this time, a kiss with tongues and teeth and sucking. A kiss that made her slip her arms around his waist and pull him in as hard as she could, until she could feel their bodies pushed together from shoulder to pelvis.

They kissed for long minutes more, his hands tangling in her hair, her hands running up his back to curve over his shoulders. Then he pulled back.

Clarke started to object, until she realized his trembling fingers were trying to unbutton the rest of her shirt.

She laughed, approving, and pushed his hands away so she could do it herself. Licking her lips at the sight of him taking off his shirt, she shrugged hers off and reached for the fly on his jeans. He reached for hers at the same time, and soon enough they were staring at each other, practically naked, chests heaving.

She reached up to open the clasp of her bra and watched in delight as his eyes widened when it hit the floor. He took a step closer and she pulled off her panties, smiling at his rough groan when he took in the sight of her.

From there, they fell into bed, him hurriedly yanking off his boxer briefs before climbing up over her, lips meeting hers, tongue seeking her own inside her mouth. When he pulled back again, it was to kiss his way down her body.

“ _You have moon-lines, apple-pathways_ ,” he quoted as he nibbled down the line of her neck.

“ _Curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born_ ,” he said as his lips grasped the rosy peak of one breast and he suckled for a few long moments while she writhed under him.

“ _You are blue as a night in Cuba; you have vines and stars in your hair_ ,” Bellamy murmured, as he moved to the other breast, licking around the nipple before claiming it with his mouth. He moaned when she arched up and her hands clutched at his dusky curls.

“ _Naked, you are spacious and yellow as summer in a golden church_ ,” he told her, licking a path down her stomach to the bump of her hip bone.

“ _And you withdraw to the underground world_ ,” he said, spreading her thighs so he could look down at her without impediment. “ _As if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores: your clear light dims, gets dressed—drops its leaves—and becomes a naked hand again_ ,” he quoted, before diving down to lick her until she screamed and shattered and came alive again.

“ _Smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round_ ,” he whispered, falling back next to her on the bed, cupping a breast in his hand while he waited for her to catch her breath.

When she could breath again, Clarke looked at him—mischievous and twinkly-eyed—before she climbed on top of him, grinding into him with her hips. He stuttered out a moan and caught her hip bones in his hands.

“ _I do not love you, except because I love you_ ,” she told him, moving up to take him inside of her.

“God, Clarke,” he said, his eyes firing with sudden hope.

“ _I love you only because it's you I love_ ,” she quoted, picking up the pace, while his hands reached up to cup her breasts.

They moved in unison until Bellamy grabbed her around the waist and flipped them over so he was on top, and thrusting harder.

“ _In this part of the story, I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,_ ” he whispered into her neck, right before he came, still moving, allowing her to follow right behind.

When they had finished and gasped their last gasp—both calming to a normal rhythm of in breath and out breath—he rolled off of her and pulled her to his chest.

“ _Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood_ ,” she murmured, tracing a line over his chest with her finger.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end. (with an epilogue)

“Oh shit! No condom!” he said, slapping his forehead with the palm of one hand, sitting part of the way up.

Clarke laughed and pulled his hand down.

“I'm on the pill,” she assured him.

“Thank God for that, because birth control was not on my mind. Sorry I'm such an idiot,” Bellamy admitted. After a moment, he said, “So what do we do now?”

“Well, me using Octavia's room is ridiculous,” she said, nestling her head more firmly into the crook of his arm. “We'll live here and be married. Won't that just horrify my mother?”

She gave him her best version of an evil grin at the thought and put her hand in his where it was resting over his chest.

He rumbled and sighed and looked down at her.

“Are you sure this is what you want? A grown man who does nothing all day? You're so driven.” He gestured to himself and to her as if to illustrate the obvious differences between them.

“I think we'll compliment each other nicely. You can make me relax and let go, and I'll make sure you don't end up a puddle of goo somewhere. Not that I'm too worried about it. I'm dying to read the finished draft of Octavia's book.”

“I promise, you get first dibs on beta reading,” he promised her.

“But seriously, Clarke, is this smart? Us, married and being together? I mean, are you comfortable with that?” he asked after several minutes' silence.

“I'm comfortable being with you,” Clarke replied. “Let's just take it day by day. For now, I'm happy to be near you.”

She pushed up on her elbows to look down at him. He pulled her back down and she nestled into his arm.

“Read to me some more,” she murmured.

He sighed, and stroked her arm, reciting quietly from memory.

“' _It is late afternoon. His hands play with a piece of sheet, the back of his fingers caressing it. I fell burning into the desert. I flew down and the sand itself caught fire..._ '”

She listened to his deep voice speaking, until she was lulled into sleep.

~~~~~

Some hours later, they were awakened by Octavia's voice in the hall.

“Bell? Clarke? Where you guys at?” Clarke drowsily sat up, feeling that she was supposed to be concerned about something, but she couldn't remember what. Then she looked down at her bare breasts and gasped.

“Bellamy!” she hissed, pulling the sheet up to cover her. But he was dead to the world and it was too late anyway, as Octavia burst through the half-open door.

“Well, well, well,” was the younger woman's smug first words. Her voice was laced with laughter.

“You owe me a twenty, Lincoln!” She yelled down the hall.

Clarke heard a muffled curse and pulled the sheets over her head.

“God dammit, Octavia. There is such a think as personal space, you know,” she said through the fabric, wishing her bra wasn't by the door.

“Says the girl who drew a ton of naked pictures of my brother. Hope you weren't disappointed by the real deal,” she said and started laughing. “You know, I told Lincoln those sketches would do the trick.”

Clarke pulled the sheet down to glare at her—no mean fete, considering she was doing it buck naked.

“You promised.”

“Well, actually, I promised I wouldn't _tell_ him you liked him. I never said anything about leaving a box of sketches on his desk. And see, it turned out well,” Octavia grinned, gesturing to the sleeping Bellamy. “I came over to see if you guys wanted to go get some dinner, but it seems like Bell is busy snoozing off the effects of afternoon delight.”

Clarke's stomach growled at the thought of food. She hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

“We are definitely going to dinner,” Clarke told her. “Text me where and we'll be there in thirty.”

“Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay here and play house with my brother dear?” she asked, and Clarke flipped her off.

Octavia flounced away laughing to herself and Clarke shook Bellamy until he stirred, grinning at the sight of her naked and rumpled in his bed.

“Well, hello there, princess,” he said, pulling her down on top of him.

He kissed her, lingeringly, the fingers of one hand reaching down between her legs. Clarke let herself get distracted by that for a few delicious moments before she pushed him away.

“We don't have time for that. We're meeting your sister and Lincoln for dinner in thirty minutes.”

He smirked at her, running his hands down her back to cup her bottom. “We have plenty of time. In fact, let's adjourn to the shower, where we can get it all done at once.”

She laughed, letting him pull her into the bathroom.

“This shower isn't big enough for the two of us,” she objected once the water was warm and they were both inside it, voice cutting off when he started kissing her neck, hands roaming.

“Wanna bet?” he said, laughing as he lifted her up and against the shower wall. It wasn't long before he was inside her and thrusting with enough force to make her forget her complaint and even the shower.

 

# Epilogue

 

Clarke texted Raven and they all met up at a Mexican place that Lincoln and Octavia frequented. Raven took one look at Clarke and nudged her boyfriend Kyle in the side.

“Looks like the lovebirds have finally hooked up,” she said.

Clarke rolled her eyes, while Bellamy ignored everyone in favor of the chips and salsa in front of him.

“Can we stop talking about it? Like ever?” Clarke asked.

“Nope,” said Octavia, sitting back, arms crossed, grinning.

“Definitely not,” said Raven, shaking her head at the idiocy of Clarke's question. “You guys are like epic fairy tale shit. I mean, loveless marriage to whatever this is?” She pointed to one of them and then the other.

“It's like what people write songs about,” interjected Octavia. “I'm already posting the whole story on my Tumblr.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Clarke, and decided Bellamy's method of ignoring the annoying people across from her was probably the best idea. She reached over to snag one of his chips and he put his hand on her knee under the table.

They looked into each other's eyes and Clarke leaned in to kiss him, when a flash went off, blinding her.

“Augh!” she yelled, rubbing her eyes.

“Sorry!” Octavia said, putting down her phone. “I was taking a picture for Jasper. He didn't believe me.”

Clarke started to say something, but Bellamy leaned over to kiss her neck and she decided it didn't matter. Let them make up all the stories they wanted, she had Bellamy, finally, and that was what counted.

Bending her head, she started to sketch his profile on the paper napkin in front of her. She'd leave it in his car later.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a passage in The English Patient (nevermind why)


End file.
